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Ch. 9: The Seven Sleepers
Back to Arheled The tree passed slowly through the quiet forest, gliding easily along, sliding up and over rocks when t could not wade around them. Up close one might hear an earthy bubbling noise as the countless roots churned through the earth, with occasional soggy scrapes where wood rasped on rock; but mostly the tree was silent as it passed among the trees, drawing ever north, towards the Massachusetts border. When it crossed a road it did so sliding on its’ exposed roots, leaving a smear of mud as if many small vehicles had driven across the asphalt from a soggy field. No one saw it, for if anyone was in sight it stopped moving, and all there was to see was an unusually pale beech. Nut now he had crossed the last road, and was sliding through the weedy swamp below the towering hill, and ahead lay great fern-girt boulders rising into the leaves: Knapp Hill, the Witches’ Retreat, the site of the Lost Caves of Colebrook. The tree stopped. With a groan roots retracted and leaves shrivelled up and were absorbed, and twigs shrank and branches dried up and the short rugged bole collapsed in on itself, exposing the features and clothing of Wayham Lane. When the change was complete he sat wearily down upon a rock and rested for a while. The evening was deepening into night when he rose with a creaking of stiff joints and clambered his way north along the broken slopes below the rockfall. The cliff was as he remembered it, though he thought it had been more broken and slumping. At first all he saw of the Lost Cave’s mouth was a blank face of stone: the Wild Man of Winsted had concealed the entrance. Drawing from his pocket the Ring of Barahir he held it up against the solid wall. With a silence like death a slab of stone split off from the cliff and floated outward, exposing a square door-like hole, black amid the deepening gloom. Wayham Lane stepped into the darkness, and behind him he heard the slab slide into place with a sigh. In the black cave the gems of Valinor began to glow with a soft green light, until they shone as bright as candles and he could see for some way around him. Slipping the serpent-ring upon his finger, he strode into the Lost Caves. The huge broken hall stretched before him. He coughed a little on the queer musty-vinegar-earth smell of those uncanny caves. His feet made rattling sounds on the rough gravelly rubble of the floor. Farther in the rubble ceased, and the hard level gravel emerged, smooth as concrete. His steps made odd shuffling echoes that ran away in whispers among the jagged roof. The many openings filed slowly by. He walked past the pit Ronnie had nearly fallen into. He passed the well of men’s tears that weep, a weird faint redness shimmering in the depths. Soon the dry well also lay behind him. Still farther he paced, past other deep pits, until the cave ended in a sudden wall. He paused, several rods from the terminus: on the left was the opening he remembered, though it had widened with the years and he no longer had to squeeze to get in. The air seemed colder and damper than the slightly warm stuffiness of the main cave; a faint wind breathed in his face, and from far away he heard the murmer of water. The gleaming ring cast a warm green brightness ahead of him. Curved walls leaned overhead until they met, and curious veins in them glittered like mica. They opened farther and farther, until he stood in a broad chamber, and there he halted. Smooth walls rose to a great height, beyond the light of his ring. The floor descended in rough shelves like ancient steps, to a cascading stream that poured from an opening in the far wall, splashed down a notch in the ledge, and opened up into a mirror-like sheet of solid water as high as a man. A rocky pool gathered the waters and they splashed through a stony channel to vanish into a hole. Rough square pillars emerged from the walls, placed irregularly all about the room, and carved into them were the busts of bearded men. Slowly Wayham Lane held up the Ring, turning it this way and that. A sudden green star shone for a moment in the sheet of the falls; a trick, maybe, of the light. Wayham frowned and moved his ring again, looking at the falls. The star did not return. Taking it as a sign, he headed inward. Down the steps of stone stalked Wayham Lane. At the falls he moved around the pool, examining it, then shed his clothes and plunged naked into the pool. It was not deep, to his surprise. He stood in the water and gazed at the falls. The sheet of water cast his image back at him, wavered and rippling, a green star on his hand. Wayham ducked under the cold cataract: it made him gasp, but it was not numbing and soon he was through it, hands held in front, half expecting a sudden drop into a deep pool, or the anticlimax of a blank wall. He found neither. Shaking water from his face he found he faced a level floor that rose steadily as it headed into the darkness. Ducking back underneath the falls Wayham stood for a moment to let the water wash the earth from him. Then, refreshed, he waded to where his clothes were and bundled them up, putting them quickly through the falls before it could soak them. He dressed in the sloping passage. The tunnel was arched, as if hands had shaped it once, though all marks of chisel or mason was long since worn away. The stone floor was wet and squished underfoot with the sunless growths that inhabit such places, and in the green gemlight the tunnel seemed to gleam like glass. He followed it back and farther back, into the depths of the hill, and it grew warmer, and the tunnel began to slant down. It grew more broken, and large cracks split the walls and snaked across the floor. Jumping one of them revealed a dislocation in the tunnel: the entire passage had shifted three feet left. Then it ended and he came into a concealed chamber far beneath the earth. The walls were curved and gleamed a faint blue, for a soft light filled the chamber: though whether it came from the walls, or from himself, or from some other source, he could not tell. The ring’s light was no longer bright enough to illumine. The remains of pillars lay against the walls, all fractured and fallen. And down the middle of the chamber stood a series of stone tombs. They seemed to be sarcophagi, for they were rectangular and elevated, though no crack of lid was visible; and lying lapped in the stone of each was carved a figure prone. But they were not the figures of men. Short they were and broad, less than four feet, but clearly not midgets; they bore rough grim faces with a terrible, austere nobility; their beards were ankle-long, braided or woven in strange forms, and on their heads were carven crowns of stone; in their carven hands were clasped stone weapons. Seven there were, and the figure at the end, he was tallest of them all, and the crown upon his head was a crown of gems like stars: from them came the light. In that moon-like glow the face of Wayham Lane looked as if it too was graven in stone, grim and solemn as an ancient tree, or as some stern and awful king of men. With a slow and dreadful majesty he stalked along the tombs of stone, passing by their feet, the ring held high so that its’ light, brighter now than ever, fell full upon the carven kings. As he passed each figure, its’ eyes of stone opened. As he passed each figure by, with a rumble like the earth each one began to rise. Emerging from the rock of which they had been carved, they sat up on their elbows, then slowly rose to sit upright, and every head turned to follow him. As he reached the last figure he came to a pause, and as it rose upon its’ elbows his own head turned to face it, until he looked into its’ eyes. “Hail, ye Unbegotten, Deathless undying, oft returned but reborn never. In the name of the King do I bid ye awake!” Stone ebbed out of each figure, fading into flesh. Eyes awoke and glittered dark and strange. Beards grew soft from solid stone and hair stirred with their breath, many different hues and shapes. He on the farthest end had a beard the brilliant red of flame, but the one next to him had a beard of utter black. Then there was one with a beard of dull frosty blue like old ice; and one of deep yellow, and another as stiff as if grown from wire instead of hair, and the one next the end ( a very broad figure) had a beard of chestnut brown. But the one who faced Wayham, his hair was silver and shone like spun metal, and it was bare, for the crown of stars had faded and the Ring alone gave light. “Thou seem to know us, though we know ye not; declare, then, our nature, if thou wear that ring by right!” challenged he whom Wayham faced, in a voice as deep as stone. “You are the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves.” said Wayham Lane. “Nogrom and Belegos, Foros and Karad, Rhû and Oronos. But you are declared by the crown you do not bear, for you are Durin, and you walked alone.” And Durin said, “Thou sayest rightly. Seven times have we grown old and lain down to die, and arisen in a later time as one but young of years: but I, the Deathless, I was slain, for I delved too deep and disturbed the nameless fear. Alone I faced him, alone fought him under the earth; and fire took me, and iron rent me, and bearing my body my kindred fled him. And I was laid down, and my body healed, and I lay in slumber returned from death. Wherefore are we called, who were to never wake before the end of the world?” Then Wayham said, “I know that not, nor can I say, for the hour of the ending is told unto none.” And Durin said, “Whom then art thou, whose mere passing calls us back to the living, who bearest on thy hand the Ring of Barahir? Who is the King in whose name we were wakened?” Then Wayham said, “My name is Wayham, and of the Road am I, and hence I was given the name and title Lane. I am here because I am sended, for here in this cave was Angainor slain, and Arheled summons all to resist the lord of the Darkness.” And Durin said, “This is evil tidings beyond all guessing. Why have not the Valar come? Has our Father grown idle? Is Arheled left to stand alone upon his Road?” And Wayham answered, “He is not idle. But his hammer fell from heaven as a blazing star to smite down the last living one of the Frost-giants; and it has not been recovered, for the hour of its’ recovery has not come to pass.” Then Durin answered, “If the End be indeed come, then the Unbegotten shall stand forth, Dwarf against Giant, as was long foreboded. Now must I my crown of stars to find, and lift it from the water, and wear the stars I only glimpsed in vision upon my head for all to see. May your beard grow ever longer, Wayham of the Road.” “And yours to touch the ground.” answered Wayham Lane. Then with a deep bow he strode on down the halls of stone, as behind him the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves stepped down from off their thrones. He wound on, down forgotten cracks and passages underneath the living earth, made by quake and by design and by the strange chances of the years. Ever the light of the ring shone when he faced the way that he was meant to go, and dimmed when he turned away; and so guided by this he descended through perilous ways for a long time, now lowering himself wedged between walls with an abyss underneath, now picking his way along a scarp of broken ledge, now squeezing through passages that seemed like keyholes. Long since had he left behind the hollow hill on the edge of Connecticut, the broken ways taking him ever farther under the earth. He felt hungry and sat down to eat. And when he had eaten, he got up and walked on once more. The air grew queer, the smell strange, as if he no longer walked beneath New England; as if he had, somehow, stepped across miles of earth and ocean, and even time, into a place long past and a land forgotten. He walked up a sad shell-pink hall, feeling the air, smelling it, the pink walls a queer purple in the green light of his ring. Ever stronger grew the feeling, causing him to walk slower; though when he did, he had the eerie sense of still moving fast, as if the cave around him was moving with him inside it, like some huge stone creature. Now a murmer reached his ears, a slow constant throb and pound: he could not understand it, nor quite place the eerie smell: it was like pond weed drying on exposed rocks in the Long Lake when the summer shallow was upon it; it was like that, yet sharper and more bitter, almost like the taste of tears. The rocks filling the floor grew rougher, more broken, and were wet with slime and strange growths. The booming grew, a steady beating crash, and then he rounded a bend of broken black rock and saw before him the cause of the sound. Waves beat and thundered unceasing upon a rocky coast; but a coast underground, for all was utter darkness. The smell he knew now: it reminded him of fair flesh and white limbs under his, and pain crossed his brow: the smell of the sea, and the girl from the sea, on whom he had begot the first heir of the house of Lane. And lit by the ring Wayham made out tall towers of stone eaten black by the sea; and the nearest one to him turned a head of stone and looked at him. And then Wayham saw it was not a rock at all, but a man of great stature who stood upon one. He was robed in sea-green, in a mantle and tunic of many kinds of greens, and emeralds gleamed in his buckle and the brooch of his cloak; and they were wrought in green sea-gold in the form of strange serpents. Bare were his huge arms, knotted with muscles like mountains. Long was his hair, a white like hoar-foam; his beard a pale green, as if moss grew in it, and by his side was slung an ancient weapon so crusted in sea-growths its’ shape was hard to tell. Long did Wayham and the stranger gaze at the other. Neither spoke. The sea-man’s eyes were buried in deep furrows, from which they shone eerily out like jewels, fay and uncanny. Then the man of the sea said at long last, “What dost thou ask?” And Wayham said, “I ask thy name.” “I am Lír.” said the other. “I have many names when I walk in many peoples, but I am always one, and I girdle the earth. You have come to me at the sending of another. Who is it that sent you? And by what right bear you that ring?” Then Wayham said, “I was set upon this path by the lord of silver crystal, to seek for my sire and the sword of my father. I bear this ring by right of blood.” And Lír roared with great laughter. “Wise words, riddling wayfarer! I know thee now, Wayham. Thou shalt come with me. I will set thee on the path to the things of which thou sleekest. I will bring thee to speak with the man who cannot die.” Wondering at this, Wayham stepped out of the cave. The tide had receded, exposing a stretch of cobbled beach. Along this trod Lír, and Wayham followed. And the man of the sea took him through countless avenues of carven stones, and ancient arches like the causeways of forgotten roads, and through the remains of many ships cast onto the gnawing shores and chewed to shreds. But one ship had not been so consumed, but remained, nigh buried in sand and tumbled rocks, her masts tall stumps, her carven prow wrought like to a flowing head of some strange bird. At this Wayham wondered, for though he had never seen modern ships he had seen sailing ships, and this was like none he had ever seen before. “Thou art the scion of the White Tree. Thou art the son of Whitefire. It is to you that the Blade that Bore the Sun and Moon shall come.” said Lír. Wayham’s eyes widened. The man of the sea was heaving with his gigantic strength. Up from the shingled beach, shedding rocks and sand like fallen leaves, the strange ship was rising, and it was not made of wood but of stone, or of some encrusted elvish glass, for it was hard, and where the barnacles were scraped or broken it shone clear. The masts, he saw now, were no stumps but thick with wrapped and crusted cables, and fastened to the helm was a statue. Crustaceans and coral long dead had left ages of shells upon his face and form, and coral glued his hands to the peculiar steering device. Little of the helm’s design could be made out through the crust, but it was no wheel, nor rudder, nor any design Wayham had heard of. Mud poured down with seawater from the mysterious wreck. “Where are we?” he said. “I do not think I have walked one hundred miles underneath the earth!” “Nor have thou.” answered Lír. “There are seas under the seas, and over them as well. We stand full three miles underneath the earth, in the region ye call Bald Mount.” “Sir, it has been many years since I walked these hills, and I do not know where that lies.” “Thou hast clomb but three miles and half from the Retreat of the Witches, though the winding caves have led thee longer. Nine miles north and west are we from the westernmost church of the Five.” “The church with the carved stern of a ship half projecting from one wall??” “Pointing north by west. Aye, Wayham, for it is here that it points, and this it signifies. Board the ship. She will bear thee to thy father.” “What was she once?” Wayham asked. “What seas did she sail, ere she sank under the earth?” “Seas strange and vast indeed!” Lír chuckled, that gigantic laughter again shaking him. “Out even to the Doors of Night and the Void beyond! But she came back in the wrong day, and the Great Disaster overtook her, for her captain was under a curse, and they forced him to break it.” “Who could have done this?” said Wayham. “The same who let in the Lord of Chaos from out of the Void.” Lír replied. “The Stars.” “Aye, the Stars. None can free him, not even the very Lords of the West, until the time comes. For the doom he was under was to never touch the earth, nor mingle or meddle with mortal affairs. '' For on him mighty doom was laid, Until the Sun and Stars should fade''…And they forced him into the earth, and threw him from his vessel, so that he touched the ground, and his doom inwarped upon him,. and here he stayed, fastened to stone. It is all that I can do to make his ship once more float; I cannot free him.” “But who is he?” Lír lifted his hand, and Wayham found himself standing on the deck, and the ship already under way. The shore fell behind, Lír alone visible among the inky rocks. The light left with Wayham. Blackness descended on the underground sea. It was choppy, with an oddly steady sea, though no wind stirred the dank cool air. The ship, despite her strange composition, floated well and took the seas quite in stride. Wayham began to feel the first signs of sickness, and swiftly forced himself to change his shape: a tree does not throw up. Still upon one twiggy limb the Ring of Barahir glowed, shedding a circular region of faint green light around the ship. Waves appeared out of the nothingness, crossed the circle and disappeared. Night held sway. He was afloat, not on a sea, but on a void of nothingness, and the world far above, and the water around, were delusions. Wayham looked at the fossil helmsman, crusted to his place, form and features shapeless and vague under the barnacled growths. “Who were you, once?” he said aloud. “Why should a doom like yours have been laid on you, and what earned you the hatred of the Stars?” The helmsman made no answer, and the boat moved on unending, and the hours passed endlessly on. Wayham Lane in his tree form felt a familiar sleepiness creeping upon him, felt limbs and boughs droop and stiffen, and fought it off. But he was weary now, both in body and mind, and in the end he succumbed. The fossil ship sailed on over the void-like sea, and at the helm was a crusted statue, and at the prow grew a lone tree with wood of purest white. The tree-slumber dropped from Wayham’s mind slowly, as does sleep from a man, until he grew aware that the ship moved no longer, and the roar of surf on sunless beaches was all around him. Sight crept into his wooden eyes, and he felt an odd slow amazement: two men stood below him, talking to one another. One of them was ancient beyond all description; his beard reached the ground, his hair likewise, both white in the gleam of the sword he held unsheathed in his great withered arms. Once he had been tall and proud, but so shrunken was his visage his eyes shone huge and luminous from their sockets. This was a man about to die. They were speaking, but the words were not English. They were in a speech older than mankind, melodious and beautiful, and in his tree condition Wayham knew it, and knew it for the speech of the Elves. “The Ship indeed cometh, but how know I it is the one that bears him?” the ancient man was arguing. “My lord,” the other answered in a voice that was both tender and clear, “thou knowest it was to thee foretold by him who laid on thee the curse of everlasting, that it would endure until thou shouldst behold a ship of stone, a white tree upon it. And behold, here comes over the sea a ship all crusted in shells of stone, and it shines of itself, and upon it grows indeed a tree of white wood, and from the tree comes the light, shed by the Ring of Barahir.” “I am not yet blind, old Hawk.” said the ancient one testily. “And thou mayest recall that Mannanan son of Lír said it was not a curse, but a doom; for my line must live on, yet all mankind after the Flood must be from the loins of Noe. So I slept, save for one week each year, after the coming of the Tuatha was cast into bitterness and woe; and I have endured nine thousand years and forty, counsellor to kings, and of all the wives I took, only one bore a child, and he was taken from me.” Wayham forced his branches, roots and leaves back into himself. It felt like inducing oneself to vomit, in reverse. When he was human once more he sprang down from the ship, alighting with a clumsy thud on smooth grass. Evidently the ship had been beached by a great wave. White sand as fine as silt ran down to the booming waves. Inland the pleasantest island he had seen opened up, broad and lit by a sort of luminous air hanging above it; and tree and grass and shrub were vividly green. Behind and on every side the ancient night lay untouched; but he heard, or thought he did, the booming crash of distant surf far in the darkness. “The Tree.” stammered the ancient one. “It is…a human!” “A human wearing the royal ring.” added Hawk. The face of the ancient man grew hard and terrible. The blade in his hand burned suddenly with white fire. “How do you come to bear that ring?” he demanded in a cold voice. “Speak. And do not think I am feeble in my age!” “I bear it for the reason I was given it by Arheled, and he gave me this ring because I am Wayham, surnamed Lane. I seek for my father and the sword of my father. Whom are you that challenges me?” The white blade wavered and drooped until the point smote the beach. The grass hissed at its’ touch. “I am Finteine, known as Narkil, named for the sword that I bear, and my only son I ever bore, I named him Wayham.” He let it fall with a dull thud and held out his shriveled arms. “I am the father that you seek.” Years fell aside from the wide eyes of Wayham. “My father.” he whispered, and entered the aged man’s embrace. “Why? Why was I taken? Why did Arheled divide us?” “Because I sleep,” Finteine said gently. “To keep me alive, all year I lie in a trance, my body halted, my heart unbeating, no aging affecting. When I awake, age advances. How could I bring up a babe? How could I be a father to you, who always slept? But now even I, who am by mother’s blood connected to the line of the Patriarchs, direct in line from Adam and Luthien, whose span in consequence was many times that of men, am dying of old age. Nine thousand years and forty I have lived; eight hundred years and sixty have I aged. Soon I will be welcomed home from this exile. A long life has been granted me, I do not conceal it; I am Finteine the white son of Bochra, and I am of the line direct of the Men out of the Sea; from the kings of Atalante do I take my straight blood.” “Whose line am I of, that was said to never die?” “The line of Luthien.” answered Finteine. “She who was born both of Maia and Elf, who bequeathed the blood of the Gods into fallen mankind. That line, it was foretold would never die, though the years lengthen beyond count. So indeed it proved. When the Kings Returned died out of the world and ice consumed the Empire of Strider, father to son it lived on, the house of Gilda. Their last scion took to wife Bochra relative to Noe, my own mother. “We sailed to the ends of Middle-earth, and found them under Ice. We shipwrecked off of Ireland, we who thought we could outsail the Flood: for no ship of Men but that of Noe himself was to come out from those waters. An elf I loved, Dana Magrusaig, she whom the sages name Morrigu. As the wall of waters closed over the world, she kissed me on the ramparts of the Havens and turned me into a salmon; the spell to endure until another beast caught me, when I would take on its’ shape. Thus became I eagle, and then hawk, and then man; and thus of the blood of Luthien one lived into Christian times. And now am I dying at long last, and of that ancient line you alone are left.” “Why was I told to seek out your sword?” Finteine held it up. “In this blade was trapped the light of Sun and Moon, when first it was forged by Telchar the Smith in the halls that are broken: Narsil it was named then. For this is the Blade that was Broken and was Made Again; Anduril the Western Flame. This sword cannot be drawn save by the Heir of Elendil: death comes upon all else.” He laid it on Wayham’s shoulder, and Wayham knelt before him. “I bestow it upon ye.” Finteine said. “I crown thee King of the forces of Men, in the battle that is coming with the Lord of Chaos. I confirm the blood that is in ye. Arise, King Wendom of the house of Telcontar. Receive from your father the sword of your sires.” Slowly Wayham Lane rose to his feet, Wendom King of the line of Numenor. Tall and commanding, a white light shone like a crown about his brows, and his face gave off light; there was power in his gaze, there was healing in his hands; upon his finger glowed green the Ring of Barahir, in his right hand was Anduril West-flame remade. And as Finteine the Ancient bent his head to his son, Hawk beside him said in a mighty voice that rang back to them from the far and hidden roof, “Behold the King!” Suddenly Finteine staggered on his feet. Hawk leaped to his side, and he and Wayham eased the heavy body of the old man to the ground. His breath rattled when he breathed. “The end of my life.” Finteine whispered. “It is here. Go, my son and sire. Rouse the Seven Sleepers, and with them emerge to return to the living. These are my last words.” “But father, where do they sleep?” Wayham cried. “How shall I wake them?” “They sleep in the cave of the forgotten, at the end of the sea.” breathed Finteine. “Now I pass from the living, for a short while. Yet…I am glad…that I lived to see the King return.” With a long, final sigh he breathed his last, and gave up his ghost, and Narkil Finteine, Fintan the Old, consellor to kings and teller of histories, passed from this life. And Wayham Lane bowed his head over the body of his father, and for the first time in four centuries he wept. And beside him he heard the strange clear voice of Hawk, singing a lament, a song of the dying. His first grief passed, even as the words of Hawk and his silver notes ebbed down into silence. And Wayham Lane looked up and met Hawk’s eye. “You did not bow.” he said. “No,” Hawk made answer, “for you are not my king.” “I am King of Men.” “But I am not human.” “What, then, are you?” “I am tavenda. I was your father’s companion for many long ages, and I tended him when his age became great. If I can aid you, Wayham, I will.” “Tell me, then, who are the Seven Sleepers?” Hawk regarded him with his piercing, strange eyes. His reddish hair reflected the light of the island behind him. “Their first mention is by the historian Paul the Deacon,” he said, “in his account of the early Lombards and their home by the Baltic Sea. On the shore of that sea was a cave, and in it lay seven men asleep. The man who discovered them tried to wake them; but the moment he touched them, his arm withered to the elbow. But they are not there now. When Alboin Errol and his son walked back in time, they saw them, laid now in a ship-barrow and guarded by the Two Minstrels.” “And are they still there?” “They are not.” Hawk said. “The barrows became no longer safe. Treasure thieves and tomb robbers the guardians could deal with; archaeological digs they could not. So they sang their last song and their mightiest, those two greatest singers upon all Middle-earth; and they sang the Sleepers under the ground, and made themselves the door. None can enter save the King, and nothing can wake them save the word that you will know.” “How do I find the tomb of the Sleepers?” “The Ship will bear you to the ending of the sea. Where it beats upon a sunless wall that rises sheer, a wall that no wave can wear, you must stand, and command there the door to reveal. Place one drop of your blood upon the hearts of the watchers, and they will open to you if you utter their names.” Wayham bent his head. “I thank you, Hawk. Where should I bury the bones of my father?” “Lay him here, upon the living grass. No rot can touch him here, nor evil dishonor him, unless the Lord of Night should come himself. I bid ye well, son of Narkil.” “I bid you well, O Hawk.” said Wayham. He bent down and laid out the body of Finteine, hands clasped on his heart, his startling eyes shut forever. Looking up he saw Hawk was gone, and only a small bird-shape dwindling into the bright distance of the island could be seen. Then sheathing the Blade that was Broken in the black elven-sheath, he stepped across the silky sands and climbed back into the ship of stone. She slid off the sand as if pushed, and turning steerless she rounded the bright island and sailed on slowly into the darkness, the black waves roaring now from behind her and bearing her on. Rapidly the last home of Finteine shrank to a luminous line in the distance, and then a single pale spot like a faint unmoving star; but soon even this vanished. Again the darkness closed around the ship. The glow of the ring lit the small circle of turgid water in which moved the ruined ship, and outside pressed Darkness. Wayham found he was thinking now of it as a person, a being of its’ own, lying in wait outside everything and inside everything: a foothold in every shadow, a fort in every closed room. That horrible sense of a universe of hostility, an entire world waiting to devour him and kept at bay only by the thinnest of veils, grew more and more tangible. He tried to repeat the sunlit optimism of the mind of Christian men to himself, but it did little good; the vague darkness licked its’ chops outside the circle of faint light, smiling with awful promise of triumph. And still the ship moved onward, and the black waves passed beneath her, roaring as they broke. He felt weariness come once again upon him as the ship sailed onward, and his head sank forward, and he slipped into dark and awful dreams of black faced breaking into slow smiles as their huge mouths opened. He woke, suddenly, feeling himself no longer alone, and cast his eyes anxiously about the ship. The ring upon his hand gave out only a faint glow. At first he deemed the deck empty, save for the eternal figure petrified to the helm; but when his eyes returned to the prow, he started backward, for a shape now stood there, black as darkness concentrate, like a man all robed in night. “Who are you?” demanded Wayham as he drew the sword. And lo! Anduril was dull, and shone not, dim and grey in the faint ring-light. '' “Thou seemest frightened, little king.” the darkness said around him, and most clearly from the robed figure. Even close up the ring shed no light on it. “Who are you?” Wayham demanded again. ''“Do you think that now you have been crowned, that all you must do is wave your sword and the shadows will flee, scattering like sparks from a disturbed fire?” ''sighed the voice of the darkness. ''“So amusing, you Christians. So arrogant. So utterly serene and confident.” '' “Who are you?” Wayham’s voice shook. '' “I am a little dervish in red tights with a goatee, Wayham King. I dance around on cloven hoofs waving pitchforks at people, in a red place with pointy flames. How can you believe in so stupid a bogey, really? So you Christians feel, even as you cross yourselves and chew your bread, and you go on your way complacent, for after all the Wineblood God has already won, and I am safely chained.” '' “You are not the lord of Men, and you never shall be, though Menel fall to you as well as Arda.” '' “Thou sayest rightly, for Arda is already mine, and even Heaven shall fall to me. Shall not the Giants consume even the Gods in the end? See what lies around you, infant king. All that Is, it is but an isle in the darkness, soon to be extinguished. For outside the World lies Kûma, and Kûma serves Me. The Void, Wayham. The Nothingness, from which even the Gods arose.” '' “Nothingness cannot give rise to Somethingness, any more than Darkness can produce Light.” '' “Is that so.” the darkness breathed. An acrid, heavy, immeasurable contempt emanated from it. “I will show you that that is so!” shouted Wayham King. Anduril flamed sudden and white in his hand. True he struck, thrusting asunder the figure of shadow; and no resistance met the blade, and the shadow flowed together around it and was not harmed. And as Wayham staggered backward, cold fear overcoming him, his sword raised in a futile attempt to ward off the Darkness, he heard the grim and mocking voice begin to sing: '' '' “Did you hear their screaming '' ''Seven nights past '' ''did you hear their mournful keening '' ''Unending till the last? '' ''Know, then, the darkness has come '' ''See, then, what you have become '' ''For darkness has no limits '' ''And darkness knows no limits '' ''Abiding, piercing, slaying '' ''It drives the light away '' ''Did you hear their weeping '' ''Seven nights past? '' ''did you see the darkness reaping '' ''The deeds that it has cast? '' ''Darkness has a name '' ''And darkness has a face '' ''Darkness shall remain '' ''And bring the land to waste '' ''For shadows are falling '' ''And darkness has come, '' ''The nations it is mauling,” '' The voice lowered to a caressing, menancing hiss as it sang the last line: ''“And kings it has hung.” '' Wayham King bent under the weight that was pressing in around him. His chest labored to expand, as if he was wearing great stones. Still the living darkness enbound him around, and the lord of the darkness looked on as the last king of men fell crushed before his feet. The strength of the darkness came out of eternity. Before the world came to be it had been there. He felt it, a blight of despair in his head and his soul, felt it as a thing ancient and primeval; and it demanded he adore it. Still Wayham Lane shudderingly rose, his sword planted in the hard deck grasped like a cane, a prop for weakness and no weapon. Darkness roared and raged about him. The ring gave out no more light. Dull and unshining was the blade of Anduril. The shout of the waves, the unseen beasts of raging water, mocked in his ears like the roar of monsters, dim faint creatures huge and mighty. It was as if all around him had collapsed into the primitive chaos, the primordial soup from which was boiled the world, as both pagans and physics taught to men. “Thou liest!” he screamed against the darkness. ''“Thy own heart tells thee I do not lie.” the voice of the darkness cascaded around him. ''“What did thou see in the chair on the mountain, when thou beheld all things through the eyes of their Lord?” '' Then Wayham Lane collapsed, to crouch, huddled and broken, hiding in the prow from the laughter of the darkness. The grinding of keel upon stone roused him. Shakily he sat up. It was no longer quite dark; whether the water itself had some eerie luminescent quality, or whether light drifted diffused through the air, he did not know. A coast lay before him. In the queer twilight black cliffs rose in broken heights beyond sight or guessing; the unseen roof might have been near, or it might have been miles above him. The sea foamed and roared among huge black teeth of stone, eroded into fantastic forms; white foam gleamed pale. The ship lay cast up on a beach of sunken boulders welded into a rough pavement by the forcing of smaller stones between them; Wayham leaped down, and it moved at once, drawn back out to sea by unseen hands. He turned to the left and strode along the beach, often missing his footing in the dimness on the wet stones. The cliff rose high but not knife-sheer, and as he proceeded farther his sense of direction told him he was bending ever farther to the left. If this was in truth the “end” of the Subland Sea, then he was already beginning the trek back along its’ coasts and not merely rounding some unseen headland. Wearily he turned and made his way back. How many hours had his human form gone foodless he did not know. He only knew that a hollow emptiness lay inside him and his steps were slow when he suddenly came to the place that he sought. There was no mistaking it. Only a little way beyond the place he had debarked, the beach ended. Waves smashed and frothed against a sheer wall, smooth as glass, that rose for nigh a hundred feet before merging into the broken cliff. Fifty feet farther on the beach resumed. Wayham lifted the Ring of Barahir. The tiny gems of Valinor awoke again in green fire. “In the name of the King you will reveal yourselves!” Sea shook. Stone broke. Out of the groaning cliff a doorway of wrought stone began to emerge, projecting from the glassy wall. Upon the lintel was wrought the figure of a man in repose, girt with mail. The doorway was empty: darkness yawned under the portal, dared any but to pass. For posts there stood on either side two men of carved stone. If they were carved, for so fine was their detail and lifelike their pose that they seemed rather men frozen than any mere works of art. Fair they were of face, their features beautiful but not ceasing thereby to be masculine: for they were not human. The look on their faces was of deep sorrow like a scar, and stern repose; they reminded him of sad music. He waded into the sea, hugging the cliff: and lo! a ledge ran beneath the water, so that he could wade but ankle-deep up to the very door itself. Cutting his finger with Anduril he squeezed one drop upon each of their marble hearts. “Daeron, Maglor, open to the King!” Stone eyes glittered. Stone arms moved, barring the entrance. From mouths unmoving voices spake, in singing tones that rose and fell in slow thick cadence: ''“Dark the doors are grimly blended '' ''Blood did build them life enbound them '' ''Our spirits blent our breen and bone '' ''With stone enduring, doom averting '' ''Doom defying. If dare thou pass, '' ''Strive in singing with minstrels mightiest '' ''None may enter Save one alone.” '' And Wayham sang in answer, ''“Dark the doors and grimly blended '' ''What could work such woe upon them '' ''Minstrels mightiest, masters of singing '' ''Strong in struggle strange with power; '' ''To make them blend their breen and bone '' ''with living rock a long life hence?” '' The voices sang again from out of the mouths of stone: ''“Morkû came here, men the mightiest '' ''Those that hate us, hateful people '' ''Mirthless lords of mortal metal '' ''Gasses spewing our song choking '' ''No strength for singing had minstrels sorrowful; '' ''Mound was taken. Men triumphant '' ''Delved down in it with dire engines '' ''Found they failure: fled was the tomb, '' ''Doom defying, death averting '' ''minstrels mightiest made them blended '' ''Sealing sleepers in sunken den '' ''Nonlive guardwards no gas taketh!” '' Then Wayham sang, ''“Who then may pass the perilous portals? '' ''Blood rejected, ring denying '' ''Blade ignoring; by what burden '' ''Shall Wayham King once Narkil’s son '' ''Of Strider’s house and Sea-king’s siring '' ''Seek to enter surf-soaked doors?” '' And the stone singers sang again, ''“Heir may be from ages countless '' ''Flood escaping death evading '' ''Line brokeless from days’ beginning '' ''Yet still would we withstand thy passage '' ''Though ring raising and rendis drawing '' ''Unless thou bearest bright and brilliant '' ''Scion of Tree towering white '' ''Thus foretolded. Thus we blended.” '' Wayham Lane did not make answer. White lightning flashed in his eyes. Roots broke through his shoes. Bark swallowed his clothing. Leaves unfolded from hair and skin, and branches sprouted, until he stood in shape of tree, white bole gleaming in the dimness. ''“In my blood blent I bear '' ''Tree white wooded White of bough-stem '' ''Wayham Lane will this word offer '' ''No more shows he. Should you be shut, '' ''Death shall break ye doors denied '' ''Will by me shatter. Behold this burden. '' ''Passing let me!” '' Stone arms fell to their sides. The glitter in their eyes faded. As Wayham Lane retracted his branches, cracks appeared, splitting the statues. The spell that bound them was fulfilled. They were dying, held unnaturally in this strange form through endless years, at last departing. Wayham walked into the doorway. The mournful surf fell silent as sudden as by switch. He stood upon a floor of dark glass in a chamber mirrored like glass, so that countless Wayhams stared down at the seven carven thrones that filled the center of the room, and countless green stars twinkled from every direction, spangling the dark dome like another universe. The thrones dominated the room. They were made of dark blue stone carved in many curious and complicated patterns, like the boles of a knotted tree, and upon them seven kings were seated, still and stiff as statues. Three of them upon the left were of tremendous stature, nigh eight feet in height; their beards were grey, their hauberks fine-made and of a style that seemed to recall both the Normans and the Pharos. High pointed helms were on their heads; in their hands were long strange swords, and their clothes were black, picked out with deep blue. Three of them upon the right were much shorter, but no less of brawn; their golden hair was mingled with grey, they held swords broad of blade in which the metal formed waving patterns, and there was a feel of the sea about them. But he in the middle, he was taller than any, and such a stern majesty was in his face that Wayham felt afraid. He was old, but they were ancient; he had been trapped four hundred years, they for thousands. Time passed over them slowly as Wayham faced the Seven Sleepers, and the Sleepers’ open eyes stared unseeing into his. Not a chest rose or fell, not a heartbeat sounded. Wayham spoke the word that Hawk had given him; it rose in the roof, it echoed ever louder till it was loud enough to wake the dead, let alone the living: '' “Galadhil!” '' As one man the seven moveless figures gave a great gasp and heave of chest, as air rushed into lungs that had been still since before the Flood. The echo stopped. The sudden silence was filled with the heavy new breathing of the seven sleeping men. Wayham Lane strode up to the centermost man. The eyes were still unseeing, though the man now breathed: he was still asleep. “Amandil of Numenor, awake!” The silent king upon his throne breathed sharply, but did not stir. “Valandil son of Numendil of the line of Elros, the King commands you to awake!” Upon his throne the ancient lord moved. The blank eyes stirred and focused. Muscles that had been still for twelve thousand years and more twitched. “Erellont and Falathir, Aerandir and Tharn, Nunien and Linos, the King commands you to awake!” The remaining sleepers opened their eyes and fixed them upon Wayham. And Amandil leaned forward upon his throne. The wakeful eyes bored into Wayham. “And whom, then, is the King?” he said. Rusty beyond description was his ancient voice, and the heads of all the other sleepers turned to him. “The line of Elendil son of Valandil, to that has the kingship passed.” said Wayham Lane. “And last of that line was the kinsman of Noe, who by virtue of that ancient blood has lasted till this very year, and I was his only son. I am Wayham Lane.” “What of the King of the Earth, who was setting sail for the land of the Deathless? Where is he?” “None who step upon the shores of the Gods can again taste of death, and so he and all his warriors are cast into slumber in the Caves of the Forgotten: Tar-Kalion the Wicked, who would cast down the very Gods. And Numenor has fallen, cast under the sea, and all roads now bent; and mortal man can no longer cross to the Undying Shores.” “And the Road,” said Amandil, “where now walks the Road?” “The Road walks straight, as it always has done, and returns now to Arda every hundred years.” “And does Earendil also live?” Falathar asked. He was of the three shorter Sleepers. “Eearendil is now among the Stars.” said Amandil. “We behold him at evening and also at morning.” “He sails no longer.” said Wayham Lane. “The Stars no longer sing. Their curse has come upon them.” There was a sudden crash. The Sleepers started from their thrones. All around them the mirror-walls began to shimmer. Splinters chipped off the thrones. “What is happening?” shouted Wayham. “The spirits of our guardians are freed.” said Amandil Valandil. “We are becoming unsealed. Soon we will be emerging upon the surface of the world.” “I wonder what the Middle-earth is like in these days.” remarked Aerandir, another of the sailors. “No longer in the middle, I would wager.” Erellont, the third sailor, answered. “I fancy we are soon to find out.” said Thord. The mirror-walls shimmered out. Around them now was earth, close-packed as if pushed outward by an unseen bubble. Then the bubble too was gone, for bits of the earth ceiling began to come loose and fall down. The glass floor darkened into rough stone. All seven thrones shattered into rubble. They were in darkness. Amandil said something in Elvish. There was a crash of falling material and a hole opened in the wall, sudden and intensely bright. Outside the sun could be seen, bright but chill, illumining strange tattered rocks upon which small waves sighed and beat. A pale sea lay beyond. Out of the cave of earth stepped Wayham King. Out stepped the Seven Sleepers, onto the shores of the Baltic Sea, back into the living world. With a sigh the cave fell in behind them and was gone. Back to Arheled